the cycle itself
like king weighted pictures
you've locked in the fog of your head

and like sentences offered with whispering tones
you'd be wiser than most not rejecting

the twilight deferral
and all that is brings
awaiting a change
in the season embracing
the nature of dangerous habits and things
we love it at times
in the shape of our bones
and the marrow gets softer
by changing it's tones
never opened a blueprint
never needed to.

the view is what makes it
the colours that warm it
we simply observe it
and it's balance is never but held nicely

A touch of burning skin; reminiscing
Cliché thoughts of days spent in damp embers
With warm hands, warm hearts...

But this is different
A late blossom
Stopped in the spring by others
Vibrant displays that lure, seduce
Leaving you with empty pockets
Wasted time
Searching through stale nectar

As the blazed ground fell to cinders
It could push through, different, unknown
Unfelt before

Let me in
Out of the cold
Out of the rain
Take my hands in yours
Just friends
It's all I can take now

Let me in
We can let the days pass
Warm inside
Together
Just friends

Just friends.

Germs

We are germs
procreating with each kiss; swallowing
each other’s cough as if our lips
were the only gas mask that could
pull us through the leaf-stained air –
carrier of the season’s change flu.

Chewing our bodies,
with the blind belief that our skin
provided the vitamins
that’d keep our body hair
out of setting on end
to the chilling breeze, as though
we were making love in a room
full of recent scoured balloons
and old television sets.

We’re relying on this because
holding hands is better than wearing gloves,
while treading through humid stones
we once feared to slip on.
The waves we sometimes gaze upon
are getting more violent as our fingers
tie together more tightly.

But we’re still too afraid
to get lost on this need
and apparent dependency,
because germs are easily
eliminated and we
are deciduous.

as the harvest moon rises

the tittering sun that once carried my songs
aged and withered in whispers, all scarlet and blond,
locked in parchment inscribed in the branches of veins
(much like those on your palms)
braiding autumn leaf manes.

it's much quieter here
(far from feeding my lungs)
where my afterthoughts deal such a delicate stroke -
& instead of the slash, I stand biting my tongue
sighing only the portraits of what I had spoke.

they told me they loved me the moment I smiled
but were deaf to the screams leaking all through my teeth
til I burst like a blister of unfulfilled tides
flooding over the walls I could no longer feed.

should I burn all the trees just to unleash the clouds?
they're so carefully crafted by streams of my blood
but the only drops left are in crackles of brown,
just the bark of my dreams that once grew in the sun.

Rootless you drift off the branch
and float, orange and wrinkly
like a recently fired pharmacy
employee gone rotten, an ugly
plastic bag swaying dully in
the breeze -

and you thought I'd forgotten what
you whispered behind my back to me
in the summer just gone, something
about the sweat stains on my inside
shoulders, tear duct pits of despair -

so live with the comparison and leave,
fall from that odd tree analogy and tarnish
the muddy ground and do your thing for
the nitrogen cycle.

You, bitter in the dirt like the lemon tart
no-one wants for pudding. Send for the snow
now, let it mulch over your lonely compost heap,

arid tongue lodged firmly into oozing cheek.

Leavingafter Jean Hélion

The widow doesn't believe
what she has become; nothing
was wrong. The arrangement of things
as if you'd never gone,

and her plans hang in the space
beneath the cieling, fill the vents
with the faintest shafts of light—

She hears footsteps now,
shoes stumbling down the hall
catches her breath as they near,

says your name to herself,
but he doesn't stop
and when a door that isn't her own
clicks shut she asks you
"Hello?" and though you don't reply,
looks at the mess you left behind
and doesn't feel alone—
Is that still life? Is that still life?